


Keep Me Goin' Strong

by auroreanrave



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, Food, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recruitment, Spies & Secret Agents, clandestine meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-05 23:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18376739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: Francie Calfo just wants to run the best Asian-inspired restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. She doesn't expect to become the best local asset for a clandestine spy group. Or at least, doesn't expect it at first.





	Keep Me Goin' Strong

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. So this is a thing.
> 
> I basically fell in love with 'Alias' a few years back and watched it completely the wrong way, starting with the final season and then eighteen months later buying the DVD box set of the whole series and watching it through. I loved it all, save for Francie Calfo's fate (a cool cliffhanger in a great episode but heartbreaking) and so I wanted to write a happy ending for Francie who, like a huge amount of female characters, particularly women of colour, deserved much better than they received. This is my love letter to Francie and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The timelines are largely fluid after this, given that so much of Season Two is dependent upon the consequences of 'Phase One' (I won't spoil it here for people who haven't seen it), so please forgive any discrepancies as alternate timeline shenanigans. It's what JJ would want. There's also a couple of other characters who get un-fridged (spot them!) because if I'm resurrecting one nice person, why not do a bunch, right?
> 
> The title comes from Stevie Wonder's 'Superstition' which is super-appropriate for a theme or two and also makes a cameo at the end.

It is how it all begins. Right in the middle.

Of course, that isn't how the real story begins, Francie learns months later. It all arcs and twists and stretches back, skimming through decades and dozens of classified incidents bubbling beneath the surface of the public eye, beneath what she's been taught and raised and expected to believe.

It's not even how the most recent of it all begins. Not really. Francie just has horrible luck.

Francie is closing up the restaurant, chains of tension draining from her neck and shoulders with every movement. She's going to go home, have a hot bath with the kiwi stuff her mom sent her for her birthday, maybe have a glass of wine or three, and then go to bed. She wants to forget about all of the mess in her life - that steel-slick feeling of something wrong whenever she thinks of Sydney and Will and their silences around her, her own nagging doubts about her life - and go to bed and sleep off this dark cloud.

That is, of course, when her whole life changes, just as she bends down to scoop up a discarded napkin, that she spots the woman behind her.

Dark hair, smooth brown skin, wearing a black leather outfit that looks like something from a steampunk fantasy. And with Francie's own face staring at her, face set in a stony grimace. Gun in her hand.

Francie spins on her heel, napkin in her hand, and the world changes.

The other Francie's gun fires and the shot goes wild over Francie's shoulder as she spins, the napkin fluttering across the other Francine's vision - Fauxcine, her brain neatly supplies - and giving Francie enough time to ball up her fist and punch the gun-holding hand.

Fauxcine grunts in pain, allowing Francie to summon eighteen months of judo training when she was ten years old and throw it out of the window, tackling into the other woman with her shoulder, legs driving forward to send both of them toppling and crashing into the table behind them.

They bounce off the table, uncollected cutlery scattering, and careen into the carpeted ground and Fauxcine drags a knee into Francie's solar plexus, driving the breath from her body for an arresting second, and Francie is full to the brim of fear and rage and adrenaline, so it comes as no retrospective surprise when Francie grabs the dirty steak knife from the floor and drives it home into Fauxcine's exposed thigh.

Fauxcine screams, the sound horrible and fantastic, and Francie is too high off the hot-blood-high of battle, the first fight she's had since she was fourteen years old and Mitzi Monroe had cheated off her in Biology class, to realise how worrying that is. Right now, Francie is crawling up the carpet to grab for the dropped handgun, just as Fauxcine's hands close vice-like around her throat.

She chokes, her vision blurring instantly, and her hands push at the ones around her throat, kicking with everything she's got, aiming for Fauxcine's belly, her chest, anything -

And Francie grabs hold of the gun, swinging it butt-first to connect with a satisfying crack that sings through her bones, into Fauxcine's nose.

Fauxcine staggers back, blood coursing through the smashed remnants of her nose, and Francie grabs the gun again, pushing along the floor on her ass until she's got enough space to stand, the gun aimed right at Fauxcine's head.

"Who the fuck are you," Francie says, and it's not even a question, although it is, obviously, even as adrenaline floods to her fingers like lightning.

Fauxcine snarls - and it's so weird seeing her own face contorted in anger, transformed so that for a second Francie thinks that there's something unholy crawling underneath her own skin, her face so devoid of a shred of a humanity - and struggles away -

\- just as the muzzle of a gun presses firmly into Fauxcine's cheek.

Francie raises her eyes in time to see Sydney of all people - wide-eyed, furious and concerned, and with what seems like an entire SWAT team behind her for support - holding the gun.

She manages long enough for Sydney to crack the butt of her gun against Fauxcine and say, "Francie, I'm so sorr - " before the adrenaline crashes out of her system and Francie crumples to the carpet in exhaustion, the last thought swimming through her head, _Don't faint, you're not a cliche, Francie_ , before she does just that.

 

* * *

 

The cell in the CIA safe house is nicer than Francie ever would have expected. It's not dank and musty and she's not in chains, and the well-built man who'd introduced himself with a smile as 'Eric' had handed her a steaming mug of chamomile tea which Francie is at least seventy percent sure isn't full of a sedative or truth serum or something.

She takes another sip. She might even knock that up to seventy five percent if she's feeling generous. Right now, she's not sure that she's feeling anything. She feels insulated, as if her brain is cushioned in cotton wool.

She just wants to go to bed and sleep for fourteen hours and wake up and for her life to be normal; for the image of Sydney with a gun and her own doppelganger's snarling face to be washed away by the morning light.

Until then, she reasons, she might as well enjoy the tea and the handsome man who keeps making small talk with her, his wide smile, and his flushed cheeks.

"Well, shit," Francie manages, taking another sip of her tea, "can someone tell me something at least?"

The man smiles, blushes to the roots of his dark hair. He has broad hands and crinkles in the corners of his eyes that don't fade. "I'm really sorry. If it were up to me, you'd be out of here and we'd be able to tell you everything."

"And it's not up to you. It's alright, handsome, I get it." Francie stretches her arms a little, working out a kink. She can feel the bruises already starting to form. When she does actually get back to bed and have some sleep, she's gonna wake up with some _killer_ bruises. Pun very much intended.

"Again, sorry," the man says. "Hopefully we should - "

The door swings open, and Sydney and Jack step through, both dressed as if for job interviews. There's an air of professionalism about them, a hint of clinical detachment, as they walk through the door, but then Francie makes eye contact with Sydney and years of best-friendship overwhelm that and Sydney swoops down to envelope Francie in a hug.

"Francie," Syd says, voice choked with emotion, and Francie fights back her own tears. She has no idea what is going on but Syd is still Syd, even if she is a suit and looks like a governmental badass, which Francie suspects she might be.

"Francine," Jack says, nodding at her. She's always liked Mister Bristow, even though he's shown nothing more than perfunctory politeness to her on the half-dozen of occasions they've been in the same room together.

"Mister Bristow. I, uh... wish it was under nicer circumstances?"

"I'm sorry about that," Jack says, and even manages to sound like he is, which is nice. Sydney sits opposite her, Jack taking the same seat, and the man - Eric, she remembers - who gave her tea sits off to the side.

"What... Christ," Francie says, and collects her words into a more organised shape, "what the fuck was that? In the restaurant?"

"That was a woman named Allison Doren. She works for a black hat organisation named K-Directorate that was trying to get to me," says Sydney.

"By impersonating me? And I guess she...?" Francie asks, the pieces clicking together in the maelstrom of her mind. She was almost the victim of an assassination because she's best friends with Sydney Bristow.

"Yes. I'm afraid she would have killed you, destroyed your body, and replaced you in Sydney's life."

"Wow." There's nothing much else Francie can say in the aftermath of that, the cold knowledge that had she not been quicker, if she had been distracted, she would have been gone from the world at the hands of a psychopath wearing her own face.

"So... now what? Am I stuck here?"

"Allison's in holding and she'll break or be dealt with at the DSR. From there on, we'll work against K-Directorate, but... you'll need protection for a while at least."

"So... what? I already live with Syd? Can't I just stay where I am? If your K-Dick buddies - "

"K-Directorate," Jack says, eyes rolling as if he's dealing with entities way below his pay grade, which is probably is.

"If they already think I'm her but I'm deep undercover... won't that buy you enough time? If I disappear from the house, they'll know something's up if they're monitoring."

"It's worth considering," Sydney says. "We have the opportunity to make K-Directorate think that it's worked. We keep Allison isolated and unable to let her handlers know. We might only have a few days but that's all we need. Once that's done, K-Directorate will be done and so will Allison and Francie will be safe."

Jack sighs, steepling his fingers together, and then says, "Fine. Get your ducks in a row, Sydney. With everything falling apart right now, I need this to work. I want Francie to have a permanent protection for the duration. Weiss, you make sure she stays safe." Eric nods, smiling at Francie.

"And me?" Francie asks.

"Do your usual routine. Work, sleep, whatever it is you do."

"It'll be hard to work with the restaurant torn to shreds from... the fiasco."

"It's already been dealt with. You'll be able to resume work tomorrow as normal. Agent Weiss will be there as a regular customer, keeping an eye on you as you work. We'll also be doing full reviews of your staff and customers to make sure no one has become replaced by K-Directorate."

Sydney leans over and takes Francie's hand in hers. "I'm sorry. Francie, I'm so so sorry, but this is only for a little while. Everything will be back to normal soon."

Francie thinks, _Of course, it won't Syd_ and manages a tired smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Francie returns home, Weiss stationed outside and looks at her home. Everything is pristine and clean as if Francie doesn't know that it's been poured through by the CIA, by Sydney and her father and his operatives. She feels violated and scared and tired and she doesn't know how to address any of that yet.

So she addresses what she can.

She strips out of her work clothes, her black pants and burgundy shirt, and tosses them in the trash because she's sure there's blood on there and the idea of washing them seems insane. She'd burn them if she could, but adding fire to the mix seems an unwise move when you're being monitored closely by the authorities.

Francie showers and cleans herself head to toe, scrubbing at her skin with that strawberry and kiwi shower cream her mom got her last Christmas until her skin hums with the effort. She makes herself the biggest sandwich she can - cold cuts and cheese and pickles all doused with hot sauce - and takes it to bed with her, triple-checking the front and back doors before she shuts the bedroom door behind her. She knows Sydney isn't coming home tonight and isn't sure what she'd say or do if she was.

She eats her sandwich and sips at the cheap beer Will likes and keeps in her fridge and watches a rerun of some sitcom and then another and then infommercials with relaxing voiceovers, until eventually her batteries have fried enough that she's tired enough to fall asleep, still wrapped in her bathrobe, her bedside lamp still blazing into the night.

She dreams of darkness and falling, falling, falling, and of her own face shattering into shards in the reflection of the restaurant window.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Francie sleeps in and makes eggs and bacon. She's still trying to reconcile everything she's learned - Sydney, Jack, Fauxcine, her entire life - and the only way she can do that is to cook.

She knows there are no bugs left - or rather no unmonitored ones, ones that this K-Directorate won't already know about - but even still, her skin crawls. She wants to shower her entire being, scrub herself free of this feeling.

"Morning, Francie," Eric says from the front door. Francie unclenches her grip on the knife and pours him a mug of coffee because she might be spiraling right now, but she's not an inattentive hostess, even to the cute government agent currently keeping her guard.

"Any news?" asks Francie in lieu of a greeting.

"Nothing. Syd and Vaughn are in Moscow right now, trying to track a K-Directorate general down with the information they've acquired."

Francie hands him the cream jug and the sugar. "It's a little disconcerting. Knowing what Syd's done. What she's doing. I just know her as this... girl."

"Well, she still is. She's just... open with everything. Most things. Non-disclosure," Eric says, a little apologetically. He has a wide, open face and is thinning at his temples just a little, and when he smiles, complimenting the plate of bacon and eggs Francie slides over to him or laughing at the comics in the back of the morning paper, it's a tiny bit wonderful.

_Enough_ , Francie chides herself, making her excuses so she can go and shower and dress for work because sleeping in is bad enough when you've got a business to run. Enough.

 

* * *

 

 

The next two days are spent getting her head back around the restaurant. It's entirely spotless, as Jack and Syd promised, and it's only when Francie gazes out across the restaurant floor that she remembers her doppelganger and the taste of blood in her mouth.

Eric and a cultivated selection of junior agents appear on a regular rota, taking spot at a small table that looks out across the restaurant. They all dress like Francie's usual customers, save for Eric who insists on dressing in obnoxious Hawaiian prints.

"I look like a tourist," he explains when Francie refills his coffee. "No one expects a tourist." He spears another piece of honey chicken on his fork and turns a page in the Raymond Benson book he's reading, eyes grinning at Francie as she walks back.

Francie rolls her eyes and asks Tricia to send Eric another plate, ignoring her server's raised eyebrow, and heading back to the safety of the kitchen where her cheeks burn a dull rose.

 

* * *

 

 

A week goes past.

Syd stays out later and later and Francie starts leaving out breakfast bowls, full of cereal and fruit and a little pitcher of cream so that Syd can have something when she comes in from wherever. The bowls disappear, clean and pristine back in the cupboards when Francie loos.

Eventually, or rather the week after, Francie spots Syd at a table in the corner where Eric normally sits. Her hair is swept up into a blonde wig and she has cheap turquoise sunglasses on.

"You look starving," Francie says as a way of introduction, and Syd smiles at her, a little tired. When she removes the hideous sunglasses, Francie can see the faint hint of a black eye underneath a layer or two of concealer.

"Okay. I've got you," Francie says and within ten minutes, there's three plates of potstickers, hot and steaming, and plates of black bean beef and leafy greens and Syd eats an entire plate of everything before Francie has unwrapped her chopsticks.

"How's work?" Syd says, muffled through her mouthful of pork and green onions.

"Good. Ever since we started introducing some Japanese stuff onto the menu, it's really helped get some of the traffic from the Kimusumes' place downtown." Francie takes a sip from her Diet Coke and frames her next question, her hands dancing between her chopsticks. "And you? How's, uh... you know? The bank?"

Syd blinks into a grin and chews on a hunk of beef. "Taiwan. Retrieving some...Mueller device. And then Alaska for the second part."

Francie asks her about what a Mueller device is, and who Milo Rambaldi is, and why a blonde wig in particular, and over the course of two hours and several dozen dumplings, they begin to heal back towards each other.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, two weeks later, K-Directorate is caught. Francie has all but become accustomed to the rota of agents in her restaurant, the way she monitors herself in her own home, for fear of either the CIA or K-Directorate having planted bugs in her lamps or in her fridge.

The organisation is shut down, the bases in Berlin and Krakow stormed and raided, their operatives imprisoned or neutralised. Francie finds this all out when they're doing morning prep on a warm Thursday morning and Eric and Jack hold a meeting in the little broom closet that operates as Francie's office.

"So that's it? I can... go back to normal life? Normal-ish life?"

Jack shifts in his chair. "Of a sort. We'll still need to monitor you from time to time but given that Alison has been sufficiently flushed out..."

"What did happen to her? Not that I care, but... is it something I shouldn't ask?"

Eric's generous mouth makes a little moue of displeasure. "It's probably something you'd avoid asking. Trust me, Francie."

Francie's mind floods with horrors. She hates Alison, she hates the woman who stole her face, who tried to kill her, who tried to consume her body and spirit and name. She can imagine every vindictive, mean thing she'd like to do to her, but these fantasies sputter like birthday candle sparks and Francie's just left cold, standing on the edge of a world she doesn't want to peer too deeply into.

"Fairr enough. Thanks for letting me know."

The two men stand and make to leave. Something in Francie's chest swells a little, because Eric has become one of her very favourite people and Jack, stoic, stern Jack who still fought for Francie and put time and resources and energy into keeping her safe and keeping her life afloat, has earned a place of pride in Francie's heart.

"Wait." They stop as Francie walks around her desk. "Can I at least get you guys lunch? On the house. Super family discount."

Eric watches Jack, ready to back him up and march out of the door on Jack's command. Jack looks at Francie, really looks at her, and for the first time ever, Francie meets his gaze with a quiet core of confidence.

"Alright. What does Sydney usually have?"

Francie grins and, because she's feeling warm and reckless, tucks Jack's arm into her grip. Like a trained gentleman, he offers the arm fully as they make their way onto the restaurant floor. "She loves the potstickers. And the orange chicken. And the duck."

Jack nods, then smiles for a second. "Of course she does."

 

* * *

 

Three months pass.

Everything changes and nothing does. Sydney introduces Francie to her new boyfriend, a handsome blond with a Neutrogena-perfect grin named Vaughn, who lets Syd steal his seaweed and works at the CIA with her and always gives a little nod to the little bronze Buddha in the corner that covers the bullet hole in the wall.

Eric stops by a lot, at least once a week if not more, usually bringing a newspaper or a book, and she starts coordinating her lunch breaks to sit with him. Sometimes they don't even talk, if Francie is flustered, and they'll sit and read, a plate of spring rolls between them.

One night, she's cleaning up and sweeping up the detritus in the restaurant. Jacinta is humming the lyrics to a Britney Spears song from the radio in the kitchen. Francie refuses to be alone in the restaurant when cleaning up at night; she's recovering well from her truck-sized trauma, but she's under no illusions that her life will ever go back to normal.

"Francie," Jack says, behind her, and Francie spins, a discarded knife between her fingers.

"Sorry, Jack. Startled me. What's up? You're a little late for dinner, but I could always - "

"That's fine, thank you. I need to discuss something with you."

"It's not Syd, is it?" Panic floods her like icewater in her heart. "Please tell me - "

"She's fine. Everyone's fine. But I need to speak to you."

Once they're in her office, Jack removes a manila folder from his briefcase and opens it to face Francie.

"Dmitri Yayakov. Russian arms dealer, discharged from the Army, high profile asset to the FSB. He's also a double agent for us and has been leaking classified intelligence about a secret nuclear missiles program."

The photo clipped to the top of the thick file of papers shows a passport shot of a grim-faced and bearded white man in his fifties, a crust of ice in his cold blue eyes.

"Okay..."

"He's over here in Los Angeles on personal business. His daughter Katerina is an aspiring ballerina and she has an audition for the Los Angeles Repertoire tomorrow. While he's here, he's going to discuss the arrangements for the transport of three nuclear warheads from their home in St Petersburg to a remote base in Bulgaria. We were hoping to use the restaurant as a meeting spot for a few hours in the evening."

Francie's mind whirls, takes in the information, and spins back on.

"I mean... sure? We don't have any functions. Do you know what you would require?" At Jack's blank expression, Francie elaborates. "I'm presuming this is a full dinner given you said hours. So... what should I prepare for dinner? I'll need to prep on my own."

"We're happy to move in a private CIA chef to handle this," says Jack.

"Nope. Not a chance, Jack. This restaurant is my heart and that kitchen is my soul. I'm not letting some gourmet come in and sully my kitchen."

"We are talking about a cordon bleu standard chef, Francie."

"Who can probably flambee while shooting an apple off my head and disarming a bomb. I know, Jack, I know. Still my restaurant and my kitchen. I might not be the best chef available via the CIA, but it's mine. Which means I'll be cooking tomorrow night, which means I need to know Mr Yayakov's favouries and yours so I can prep as much as I can."

Jack leans back in his chair, a muscle twitching in his mouth, obviously displeased. "Fine," he concedes. "I'll send Eric over with the details. You are having a couple of waiters and a sous chef though."

Francie sighs. This goddamn Bristow family. "Fine. But I still call the shots food-wise. Now," she says, rising from her desk, "potstickers?"

"I wasn't really - " Jack says, a little caught off-guard, and it's moments like these that make everything worth it for Francie.

"I know, but I'm still going to make you eat 'em, Jack," she beams, and pulls him towards his favourite table.

 

* * *

 

The night of the Yayakov meeting comes around with alarming speed. Francie sleeps only a little and ends up running into Syd, a little sleepy-eyed and yawning around her coffee mug. Bright morning sunshine pours over them.

"Vaughn's away on assignment," Syd explains. "Plus I wanted a night in my own bed. It calls to me."

"Nice," says Francie. She pours her own mug and cracks her neck as she looks out at the dawn sunshine for a moment. "I'm guessing you know about this... rendezvous tonight at the restaurant."

"Dad told me about it. I wish I could be there, but I'm monitoring Yayakov's daughter in case something goes down."

"Okay. It'll be fine, you guys run stuff like this all the time." She isn't sure if she's trying to reassure Syd or herself, probably both, and she lets Syd pull her into a big hug.

"It will be. My dad is great and so is Eric and... it'll be fine." Syd presses a kiss to Francie's temple, protective like a mama bird, and Francie feels a swell of affection for her best friend.

 

* * *

 

Before long, it's dusk and Francie is prepping the dishes in the restaurant's kitchen. She's dressed carefully, in a simple sheath dress of black silk that she last wore to some drinks Will had invited her and Syd to. Her hair is up and she looks more severe than she might want to. Not a bad thing, she thinks. The act of looking unfuckwithable bolsters Francie like a suit of armour.

She looks out across the restaurant, to the single laid-out table, and sees Alison Doren's face and swallows her panic in a gulp.

Yayakov is quiet and simmering when the dinner begins, Jack cold and stoic. She doesn't listen to their conversation. Yayakov and Jack have a frosty relationship, but she doesn't see Eric or the other agents or the trio of Yayakov's hired security reach for their weapons through the porthole windows of the kitchen, and she supposes that that is a minor victory.

She serves small bowls of fish _solyanka_ and _blinis_ , places potstickers and _pelmeni_ on the same plate, and _shashlik_ for the entrees. Dessert is Tula gingerbread and she even sees Yayakov crack a smile as he eats it. Francie only hears pops of conversation as she works, her nervous energy lending her the drive to clean everything herself.

Francie steps out into the restaurant as they finish their desserts.

" - dancing for her. Always been her passion," Yayakov is saying, and then he looks up as Francie collects his plate.

"Beautiful," he says, smiling at her, and it's insidious and creepy, and Francie pulls on years of practice, to nod and smile, and say "Thank you."

His hand touches her wrist as she goes to collect the cutlery. "You make the food as good as my babushka. What can I pay you to come and be my personal chef in Moscow?"

Alison Doren wearing Francie's face. The nightmares. The world she's been thrown into. Francie has survived it all and will survive this.

She gathers herself and breaks his hold by twisting her wrist around. She maintains eye contact. "I'm great where I am now, thank you. Coffee, gentlemen?"

Yayakov smirks at her and then looks at Jack. "I think we're concluded here." Francie makes her way back to the kitchen, straight-spined and implacable, Eric's gaze warm on her back.

Within ten minutes, the restaurant has been cleared out, and Francie can finally breathe. She's just hosted an international spy rendezvous, she's allowed to be a bit shaky.

"Well done, Francie," says Jack. "You handled amazingly under pressure. You should be proud."

"I'm relieved it's over, Jack. But, thank you." She has a headache building, but she's going home, to a glass of wine and two slices of cake in the fridge and the feeling that she's helped save the world a little bit.

Two days later, Eric sends her a newspaper link in her email detailing how a trio of missing warheads had been rescued by NATO forces en route to Bulgaria.

_Congratulations on helping save the world, Francie_ , the text of the email reads, and Francie feels accomplishment fizz like pop rocks in her chest.

 

* * *

 

 

It happens again because of course it does.

Jack asks her because she's an asset to have, a trustworthy place where the CIA can meet, and Francie can't say no to a man who gave her her life back and entrusted her.

She plays host to an Iranian physicist and makes _fesenjan_. She cooks bratwurst and duck confit and asks her grandma about the Creole dishes they used to have.

More and more agents stop by, largely on Eric's recommendations, and on the tacit understanding that anywhere Jack and Sydney Bristow stopped by and had lunch at and trusted was somewhere to go to. She meets the res ot Sydney's team, her work friends, and soon finds herself a firmament in their orbit. Marshall fixes her register when it goes on the fritz. Nadia asks her to show her how to make _alfajores_ with dulce de leche. Marcus brings his wife on their anniversary, Diane's arms healing from burns.

Syd moves out a couple of months later, when she and Vaughn become serious, in the wake of some near-death experience Francie hears about from Eric and chews Syd out over because national secrets or not, Francie is Sydney's best friend and she'll hear about every horrible thing even if it kills her.

Francie and Will become okay again. Sometimes it's enough and sometimes it's not, but she'll take it over losing one of her best friends.

One night in October, Eric helps her close the restaurant, and kisses her in the kitchen.

"I am so sorry," he says, blushing. His ears are a flame red. "I didn't - I mean - "

She kisses him right back. Eric Weiss is goofy to a fault and rocks a suit and has always put Francie first and has given her so much. It feels natural and warm, an exhalation of satisfied breath on behalf of the universe.

"Finally," she murmurs into the kiss. Eric sputters and Francie laughs, because he's always making her laugh, and pulls him into another kiss.

 

* * *

 

Sydney and Vaughn's wedding is on a glorious day in May, as if Jack conspired with the clouds themselves to make sure none were present for his daughter's big day. It's nothing too big, mainly agents and college friends, but Will and Francie are pulling duty as best people in elegant navy blue, and everything looks wonderful. Eric winks at her from across the aisle and Francie blushes into herself.

When the vows have been said, and the toasts have been made, and the cake has been cut, and the dancing has begun, Eric finds her on the dancefloor. He's a ridiculous dancer, all uncoordinated and boundless enthusiasm, but he makes every song a joy.

Behind him, she can see Will and Nadia talking, smiling, and the Dixons' kids laughing as they sit under a table, plied with cake. Jack watches Sydney and Vaughn talk to Marshall and Marcus. This strange, wonderful family, who came into her life and saved her, even at incredible risk and cost.

Francie swings into a groove as Stevie Wonder kicks in over the speakers and Eric beams at her, love radiating from him.

Francie can't quite believe how lucky she really is.

**Author's Note:**

> For those (including me) who want a quick summary for our heroes:
> 
> Francie - alive and happy with Eric, who progresses a little but stays out of the field.  
> Sydney - married to Vaughn, happy, future kids and all.  
> Will - maybe dates Nadia? Open to interpretation whether it lasts but who knows?  
> Dixon - Diane survives her fridging attempt by Sloane and is happy and alive with her devoted husband.  
> Marshall - married to Carrie and happy and a great dad.  
> Sloane - dead. Super dead. Torn to pieces forever dead. His wife Emily survives though and lives out a happy life somewhere.  
> Nadia - with Sloane dead, her original fate averted. APO agent and thriving.  
> Jack - still Jack Motherfucking Bristow and cooler than us all.


End file.
